"She's been very nice to me," Nan said, "and the customers seem to like me."
Cohoon said, "They should. I reckon you're something different from what they usually find in a place like this."
"Don't flatter me, Cohoon," she said. "The difference between one woman and the next isn't as much as some people would like you to think. . . But you're right in a way, too. Do you know why they like me? I'm no prettier than some of the other girls in the room, and my voice is nothing remarkable, and my songs aren't really anything out of the ordinary. Do you know the real reason why they like hearing me sing?"
He shook his head. "Why?"
"Because I'm a lady," she said calmly. "Or was, and they can tell it, even in this getup. And it pleases their vanity to have a real lady singing bawdy songs to them. . . Oh, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, Cohoon. I figured it out very carefully, eighteen months ago, when one of Montoya's friends found me starving and took pity on me and offered me a job in his place. I took stock then, and discovered that all I had to sell—besides what every woman has to sell, which seemed a poor way to make a living—was a passably trained voice and an air of refinement. The latter was a novelty in that part of San Francisco; I decided to cash in on it. I got one of my old evening gowns out of hock—a very demure and ladylike garment—and sang a hymn for my first number. They didn't know what to make of that, or of me either, in that place. I sang a couple more songs of the same order. I saw they were starting to get bored; the novelty was wearing off. So I cut loose with one of the songs Montoya used to sing when he'd had a few drinks, and they realized that I'd had a joke at their expense, and loved it . . . After that, sometimes I'd tease them a whole evening with hymns and sentimental ballads before giving them what they really came to hear. It was very good for business, which I suppose is why Miss Bessie hired me on her last trip to San Francisco." She smiled at him. "You don't approve, do you, Cohoon? I can see it in your face."
He said, "It's none of my business."
"No," she agreed, "it certainly isn't. But you'd feel better about it if I'd sing nothing but nice songs, wouldn't you? You'd feel better, but you wouldn't come back to listen tomorrow. It makes you feel uncomfortable to hear a well brought-up young lady singing dirty songs to a lot of drunken men; it shocks your sense of propriety. But you'll come back tomorrow to be shocked all over again, don't deny it."
Cohoon laughed. "You're kind of hard on us men, aren't you, Nan?"
She said, softly and bitterly, "No, why should I be? I really owe a great deal to the two men in my life: My father, who insisted on my learning to sing in the choir, and Montoya, who left me a guitar and an inexhaustible supply of lewd ballads—fortunately I have a very good memory, even for words I don't quite understand. Between the two of them, I manage to make a living; in fact, I can even call myself moderately successful. The customers have been generous, and Miss Bessie is pleased enough that she's even willing to let me go back to choosing my own costumes, even if they don't display my ankles." She laughed briefly. "I can remember when the idea would have shocked me deeply, but now it seems a small indiscretion. But I feel I can put on a more effective performance in a less flamboyant garment."
Cohoon chuckled, regarding her critically. "Well, now you mention it, it's quite a dress; a man hardly knows where to look."
"That depends on the man," she said dryly. "Most of them seem to have no difficulty." After a moment she said with a quick smile, "I don't understand you, Cohoon, or perhaps I don't understand myself. You disapprove of the way I earn my living, you use me to help settle your private grudges, and still I seem to tell you a chapter of my life every time we meet."
"Why," he said with a drawl, "I take it as an honor, ma'am," Then he hesitated, and went on: "I forgot to mention, as I was riding out of town two days ago, a young fellow was asking for you at the hotel. I said nothing to him, figuring that if you'd wanted to be found, you'd have let him know where to look."
"That was good figuring," she said, a trifle grimly. "I wish some other people in this town had figured similarly....
Well, I'd better get up and earn my keep. Are you staying?"
"I'll be here," he said.
She paused after rising, looking down at him. "I don't want to tell you your business, Cohoon, but Westerman's bound to learn of your presence in town. Hearing me sing isn't worth getting killed for, particularly when you don't care for my songs in the first place."
Cohoon grinned. "Thanks for the warning, but I doubt there's anything to worry about. Paul Westerman's playing his brand of poker and I'm playing mine. To have me get arrested for brawling the first day here was a good idea, but it didn't work. And if I'd just ridden out of town and disappeared, after being warned to leave, that would have been acceptable to most people, although there might have been a few questions asked. But a full-dress murder here in town . . . people wouldn't like that. They'd say that since it was a personal matter, Mr. Westerman ought to've done his own killing. And for all his gambling background, he's not the man to risk everything he's built here on the turn of a card—or his skill with a gun, either."
She moved her shoulders. "All right, if you want to wait, I'll be just long enough to sing a pretty song for you, and one not so pretty for the paying customers. Have a drink on the house to make it sound better."
He watched her move away among the tables, avoiding the reaching hand of a drunken man, and responding lightly to comments thrown her way. It disturbed him that she should seem more attractive to him tonight than ever before. It was improbable that she had changed markedly in two days; therefore it was his judgment that was at fault—a judgment that he had no reason to trust, in any case where women were concerned. Yet, as he watched her take her place beside the piano and begin to sing, he found himself toying with a notion that had first come to him when he looked at the blackened walls of the ranch house and told himself that it was just as well he was not bringing a bride home today, since there was no home left to which to bring her. He reached for the bottle and started to pour himself a drink, but changed his mind. It was not a decision to be made under the influence of liquor.
When she came back to the table, he rose to greet her. "Can you come outside for a few minutes?" he asked.
She studied his face briefly. "I suppose so," she said. "I'll tell Miss Bessie and get my shawl."
Outside, the night was clear and moonless, so that the stars seemed brilliant and very close. The strong winds of the past few days had slackened temporarily; there was only a mild breeze, not enough to stir the dust. They walked down Creek Lane to the arroyo that cut it short, and a little ways down the edge of the arroyo to where the sound of the saloon and gambling places was a dim murmur behind them. The rest of the town was already quiet. Cohoon stopped and turned to look at his companion. Her face was a white oval in the darkness. She was the first to speak.
"I was worried about. you, Cohoon. That's odd, isn't it, considering how short a time it is since we met?'
He said, "It's good to know. You were in my mind, too. Nan, I—"
He found it difficult to continue, under the steady regard of her eyes. It seemed suddenly a cold-blooded and unworthy thing he was about to propose; yet there was more than this behind his sudden silence. They faced each other for a moment without speaking. Then she stirred slightly; and suddenly she was in his arms. The kiss was warm and deeply satisfying—as satisfying as a kiss could be. At last she turned her face aside and stood for a moment, still in the circle of his arms, pressing her forehead hard against his shoulder. He could feel her trembling. She lifted her head abruptly.
"That," she said, "was probably a mistake, but I do not regret it."
"Nan—"
"No," she said. "We are both lonely people, Cohoon. Let's not pretend it was more than that."
She freed herself, and raised her hands to her hair. He watched her, and began to speak abruptly.
"I've been over at the Grant the past two days, as you know," he said. "The
grass looks pretty good this year. It's thirty miles from road to road, and about the same from the river to the crest of the Candelarias. All that isn't fit for cattle, of course, but there's enough. I plan to build a cabin up by Willow Spring, handy to the new road, and hire as many hands as I can afford to round up what's left of the stock. I have a hunch Westerman's miners have been living high on Diamond C beef, but that kind's mostly too lazy to go after a cow that isn't standing out in plain sight, so there ought to be enough back in the breaks to make the start of a herd; and according to Van Houck, Father left enough to pay the taxes and carry me for a year or two."
He stopped as the girl before him made a movement as if to speak, but she changed her mind. He could just make out the shape of her face in the darkness.
He said, "That much looks pretty good. Left alone, I ought to have the place in pretty good shape by fall—as far as living on it is concerned. It'll take a few years to show any kind of a profit, of course, after the way it's been left to run down. However, there're some other things you ought to know. Westerman's one of them; he claims to hate me because of Harry. Actually, I've learned he's got better reasons that concern his pocketbook. I figure I'm going to have trouble there. Also, somebody killed Father, and Jonathan, my brother, a couple of years ago; you may have heard of that. Maybe it was somebody just drifting through, although it doesn't seem likely, the way the thing was done. If it was, he's long gone, and I'm not going to waste more of my life chasing after him. But if it's somebody local ... " Cohoon shrugged. "I'm still not going to chase after him, although some people feel I ought to. I figure that sooner or later he'll come to me, not being able to stand the strain of having me around. When he makes his move, I'll have to move quicker, that's all. I don't figure he'll give me time to take it to the law, even if there was any law around here that would walk across the street to help me..."
Nan was quite still; only her lips moved. "Cohoon, what are you trying to say?"
He drew a long breath. "I know. I'm going the long way around the barn, but I wanted you to know how things stood." He looked down into her face; after a moment, he laughed ruefully. "Father rode clear across the country when the time came for him to settle down. I never heard that he had any trouble asking the girl he picked out. Well, I reckon I'll never be the man he was in any respect."
"Are you asking me to marry you?" Her voice was gentle enough, but it held an edge of harshness.
"Yes," he said.
"Why?" she demanded.
He hesitated. "Do you want fancy words, Nan? Or do you want the truth."
"Try the truth," she said quietly.
"I've been five years in prison," he said. "I've got a big job to do out on the Grant, and I doubt I'll be able to do it alone."
She said, '"I hear no mention of love."
He said, "I've heard all I want to hear of love; and I wouldn't be surprised but what you have, too. I will say this: I need you, and I'll do my best to make you happy." After a moment, he said, "It's pretty soon for me to ask, I know. There's no need for you to answer tonight. I just got to thinking; this fellow from the East might be wanting to take you back with him. I thought I'd better let you know there's a place for you here, if you want it."
"I have a place here." She jerked her head toward the sound of music. "I don't need to marry anyone."
"I wasn't implying that you did."
She looked at him for a moment longer; then turned abruptly away, looking out toward the desert. "Is that really why you asked me tonight? Because of Lawrence James? Or was there another reason?"
Cohoon said, "I don't rightly know what you mean. The fact that you looked real pretty tonight, to a man just out of the hills, might have had something to do with it."
"I thought we weren't going to have any fancy words." Her voice was harder than it had been. "Tell me just one thing. Where did you stop in town tonight before you came to the Double Eagle? Who did you talk to?"
He frowned, puzzled. "You were the first person to whom I'd spoken in two days, Nan, except the bartender, to ask for whisky. I stopped nowhere else in town, since I'd had a bite to eat on the road about sundown."
She swung around to look at him. "You're telling the truth?"
"Yes. What—"
"Then you don't know? You haven't heard?" He did not speak, and she said, "We get the society news, even on our side of town. It has been publicly announced that Miss Claire Paradine is to be married next week, to your friend Westerman. But that would have nothing to do with your asking me, would it, Cohoon?"
He said quietly, "I didn't know."
"I ... I'd hate to think you were again using me for revenge," she said. "A lifetime of revenge, Cohoon? You'd be the second man today who wanted me for that. Lawrence wanted to marry me to get even with me; to make me suffer for standing him up three years ago. Do you want to marry me to get even with her; to make her suffer?" He did not answer, and she said breathlessly, "Even if you did not know she had announced her wedding plans, you could still have been striking back at her—I think you were." She flung back her head to look at him. "The answer is no, Cohoon. No! If you want a reason, I'll give you the look on your face just now when you heard she was marrying Westerman.
You're still in love with her. And I don't want a man who's another woman's property; I've been through that once before!"
Then she was silent. After a second or two, Cohoon said, "It's your decision. I'll see you back now."
He reached for her arm, and she let him take it and guide her back along the arroyo bank to the end of Creek Lane. As they turned into the street, moving toward the lighted parts ahead, a figure stepped out from behind a nearby adobe shack, crying in a shrill voice: "Get away from him, Nancy!"
Cohoon saw the gleam of the long-barreled revolver, and gave the girl a straight-armed push that sent her stumbling out of the line of fire. There was time for no more, as the gun discharged with a black-powder roar and a burst of flame that split the darkness apart for an instant and left it darker than before. Cohoon felt the sharp, club-like blow along the ribs; it threw him off balance. The gun fired again, thunderously close, and a third time; then, on one knee, he had the knife clear. The throw was good.
He got to his feet slowly. There was blood trickling down his side. Nan had picked herself up; he saw her run forward and go to her knees in the dust, heedless of her dance-hall finery.
"He'll be all right," Cohoon said, "unless his head's softer than I think."
He stepped forward and picked up the knife; that was the good thing about a knife, it gave you a choice of point or hilt. There were people running down the street now, drawn by the sound of gunfire; Nan would soon have help in caring for the unconscious man.
There was nothing for him here except a possible argument with the marshal; Cohoon started to walk on, but checked himself, looking down at the long-barreled revolver lying in the dust by Lawrence James's outflung hand. Even in the dark he could see that it was an old-fashioned cap-and-ball gun, converted to metallic cartridges; in its day it had been a fine weapon, elaborately engraved. The original owner's initials still showed on a gold plate set into the butt. Cohoon picked the weapon up and read the worn letters; R. St.C. P.
13
THE PARADINE HOUSE was dark except for the upstairs window of Mrs. Paradine who, Cohoon recalled, suffered from insomnia in addition to her other complaints. Cohoon walked up the steps and knocked on the front door. Presently light was brought along the hall inside, and the door was opened for him by a stout, dark-faced woman he did not know. Then Claire Paradine came down the hall, wearing a light-blue robe over her night-dress.
"I'll take care of this, Teresa," she said. "Just leave the lamp here." She waited until they were alone in the doorway before she spoke again. "Boyd, what do you want? You must be drunk to come pounding on our door at this hour." He looked down at her. Her fair hair was loose about her shoulders and the lamplight was in it; she was an image out of the dreams that had kept his h
ope alive for five years. He realized that Nan Montoya had spoken only too accurately: she had been wise in refusing to accept, on any terms, a man who could never be more than partly hers.
He said, "I want to speak to your father, Claire."
"I doubt that Dad cares to speak to you, after the way you've behaved; and I think you show poor taste—"
He said, "Let's not discuss my shortcomings here. Will you get your father, Claire, or should I come in after him?"
"Boyd!" Then, shocked, she said, "Why, you're wounded! There's blood all down your shirt—"
"Never mind that," he said harshly. "Just get the Colonel down here. I have some property of his to return."
"But—"
There were footsteps behind her. "What's this?" Colonel Paradine's voice demanded. "What's going on here? Who—" He stopped a pace behind his daughter, clearly taken aback by the identity of the visitor; then he cleared his throat and spoke angrily: "Mr. Cohoon, I don't think I need to explain why you're no longer welcome here at any time, but particularly in the middle of the night. We don't keep Creek Lane hours here, young man!"
Cohoon said, "My errand won't take long, sir. I simply came to give you back your gun. Next time you lend it, suggest you pick someone who can shoot."
There was a moment of startled silence. Cohoon drew the long-barreled weapon from his waistband and held it out, butt-first.
"It is your gun, isn't it, Colonel? Your initials are on it."
"Where—"
"Does it matter where he tried to do the job?" Cohoon drew a long breath and said: "Colonel Paradine, a few days ago you gave me a sum of money in return for certain services. There's nothing to be gained by going into details; let's say only that it was not the payment I had expected. I should simply have refused the money, since I could never have brought myself to use it. Instead, I gave it to someone who had been kind to me." He was aware that Claire had moved slightly, but saw no reason to correct whatever impression she had drawn from his words. He continued to address himself to the Colonel in a formal way: "Sir, I admit that my action was ill-considered and unfortunate. Please believe that no conscious slight or insult was intended; and that I deeply regret any hurt my action may have caused any person in this household."
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